


A Matter of Professional Integrity

by sorion



Series: A Matter of Professional Integrity [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-15
Updated: 2012-03-13
Packaged: 2017-10-29 15:11:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorion/pseuds/sorion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Reichenbach, John suddenly realises that something is not quite right with what he was meant to see.<br/>BBC Sherlock story, based on a quote from Guy Ritchie’s first Sherlock Holmes film. Will be Sherlock/John, eventually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the first part on Thursday before Reichenbach Falls, and all I had to do was add the details. I’m not that fast ;)

  
  


John strides along the long corridor, purposefully, his steps echoing off the walls. With every step, he becomes surer of himself. After all, if Mycroft wasn't in this office where John expects him to be, John would have been stopped at the front door at the latest (quite possibly the moment he left his flat, because the Holmeses had the tendency to foresee his steps before he took them).

So, Mycroft knows that John is on his way, he must have… some idea what John would want from him. And, again, John is sure that he would have been stopped by now, if Mycroft a) didn’t want to face the upcoming demands or b) the demands were unfounded.

Another step; more certainty. John’s jaw sets. Another corner. More steps.

When John approaches the secretary’s desk in front of Mycroft’s office, she merely looks up and nods towards the door.

“You are being expected, Doctor Watson.”

John nods. “I am aware of that.” He doesn’t stop, even though Mycroft’s assistants are all ridiculously attractive. He doesn’t let himself hesitate before he opens the door, either, just pushes through it.

He takes three more steps and waits facing Mycroft who is sitting behind his desk until can hear the door fall close behind him.

“John,” Mycroft greets him sombrely, but strangely warmly (for Mycroft).

“Is he safe?” is all John asks.

Mycroft blinks. “Beg your pardon?”

“Let’s…” John shakes his head, smiling bitterly, “… not do this.” He fixes his eyes on Mycroft’s, not backing down.

Mycroft studies him in return, not exactly appearing uncomfortable, but not sure how to reply, either.

John refuses to look away, but he licks his lips and takes a deep breath. “Once I was over the shock, and the…” he clears his throat, “… the grief-stricken stupor lessened, I realised a few things. And while my mind might not be a palace, I did pick up a few memory tricks.” He stops. Swallows. “And I got banged up, didn’t I? Can hardly remember a thing. Except for the blood and the unseeing…” he chokes, “… eyes. He knew he would fall, didn’t he? The bloody ball! Always playing with the bloody ball! And he…” The words are gone, again. “He sent me away because he knew! Mycroft! He sent me back. Home.”

Mycroft sighs. “John. You don’t…”

“Yes! I bloody well do, Mycroft Holmes! Because, just like him, _you_ knew! You’re a bloody Holmes. You knew. Don’t try to tell me you didn’t!”

Mycroft averts his eyes and signs John to continue.

“And if Sherlock knew he had to fall…” His face twists into a painful smile. “And, of course, Molly. Must not forget dear Molly. His… insider in the morgue. Keep your eyes on me, he said. Please, can you do this for me, he said.” He shakes his head. “Sherlock was brought in so fast. So, so fast.” He takes a deep breath. “But you know what, Mycroft Holmes?”

Mycroft obliges him. “What?

“I’m a doctor. I can tell if a man’s dead or not,” he concludes, firmly, daring Mycroft to deny it, praying with every fibre of his being that he won’t.

Mycroft smiles a tiny, sad smile. He takes out his mobile phone, types a short message, sends it and lays the device on the desk. “He is… as safe as he can be, at the moment.”

John can feel a huge wave of relief rush through his system like a cool tide, engulfing him, nearly drowning him, and yet it is the first time in two weeks he can truly breathe. Equally, Mycroft’s voice sounds as if it’s coming through metres of water.

“Please, have a seat.”

This time, John doesn’t protest. He merely lets himself fall into the (ridiculously comfortable) chair and rubs his face with a shaking hand. It comes away wet.

Mycroft folds his hands on the desk and looks like he is John’s brother as well. “It was for his safety as well as yours. I apologise.”

John nods, then shakes his head, then nods again, choking back a sob. “Yes, no. I know.” He takes a shuddering breath. “I know.”

Mycroft waits patiently.

“I want to help,” John forces out between harsh breaths.

Now Mycroft looks uncomfortable. “At this point in time, it would be extremely dangerous if anyone were to realise that... things are as they are.”

John bites his lips and rubs at his eyes that refuse to stop spilling tears. “Later, then.”

Mycroft hesitates for only a short moment, then nods. “There certainly will be a time for that, John.”

A more than slightly hysterical laugh escapes John’s throat. He feels like this would be a good time to simply pass out. The carpet looks as comfortable as the chairs...  
Instead, he just looks at Mycroft, fully aware that he returns the honest and soft smile with quite a wobbly one of his own.

When Mycroft’s phone buzzes on the desk, Mycroft pulls it closer to read the message, huffs a tiny laugh and then turns it to push it towards John.

John’s heart beats in his throat when he reaches for it. There is no question who the message is from.

Sentiment. Such a terrible weakness. But this moment... this moment is worth every weakness. John would suffer everything life can throw at him, if in return he can feel the rush of love in this very moment when he can see Mycroft’s message and the answer he received.

 

>   
> 
> 
> _He knows.  
>  \- M_
> 
> _Told you so._

 

**The End?**


	2. Unrest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There was nothing he could have done. At least not while being the man we both know he was.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will be Sherlock/John, eventually.

John moves back into Baker Street the same day. Everything is as he has left it behind, Mycroft having taken care of the rent of 221B as well as the shabby hotel John has used as a retreat. John hasn’t felt overtly guilty for that before, and he certainly doesn’t feel guilty about it now. Now that he knows that it is more than what Sherlock _would have wanted_ , it is indeed what Sherlock _wants_ , and that Mycroft has amends to make to Sherlock for giving away his secrets and to John for keeping him in the dark (never mind that this is another thing Sherlock would have wanted; John doesn’t mind the hypocrisy too much in this case).

The moment he’s back home, he makes himself some tea and opens his laptop. His visit with Mycroft has ended with John realising that he couldn’t _not_ do anything to help Sherlock, and Mycroft relenting and sending him home with files.

The laptop whirrs to life. 

John may not have been able to help Sherlock directly, but he would be damned if he didn’t do everything he could to ease his eventual return. Return... At that thought, John freezes, and his eyes lose their focus and stare through the screen of his laptop. Return. Sherlock would return. It’s not a dream or suspicion, anymore. Not a... His vision blurs, and before he knows it, tears are streaming down his face, his mind’s eye, unbidden, replaying the last moments of him watching his best friend falling falling falling...  
John’s throat constricts, and while before he has always soldiered on, he now lets himself feel all of the pain he buried. There is no room for thought, not between the grief and relief. There is no thought for the oddness of it all; the contradiction of only being able to feel grief when there is no reason for it, anymore. He just feels.

He cries for a long time – for the pain and the loss, both of which still hurt _so much_ – and when he finally opens his eyes, a smile back on his face, his blog is waiting for him. 

John shakes his head, makes a detour to the bathroom to wash his face and returns to sit down. He sniffs, once (and almost resolutely), clears his throat and pushes back his sleeves. To work then.

Before he begins writing a new entry, though, he rubs his traitorously stinging eyes at the sight of the last entry and huffs. _’I should punch you when you get back,’_ he thinks. “Bastard.” But he smiles, as he murmurs it.

*

It only takes a day (or, actually, it only takes until two hours after John posts his latest entry) for Lestrade to barge into 221B’s living room.

John has heard and ignored the knock, but apparently, Mrs Hudson took pity on the Inspector.

Lestrade stops at the door for a moment, taking in the sight of John with his laptop and a mountain of files he is taking pictures of. “What the hell are you doing?”

John doesn’t even look up. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m clearing his name.”

Lestrade does a shrugging/nodding motion that makes him look about as exasperated as he always looked with Sherlock. “I did see the blog, thanks.”

“It’s not like _you’re_ doing anything,” John can’t help but add.

That sparks anger. “Hey!” Lestrade points at John and steps closer. “We _are_ working on it. All the cases Sherlock consulted are being reviewed. All of them.”

John does briefly look up at that. It’s not a very sympathetic look, and it doesn’t last long, as John returns to his work.

“So far, not a single one had to be reopened.”

John’s jaw sets. “And that surprises you?”

Lestrade averts his eyes, looking faintly ill, and John doesn’t even have to look at him to see it.

“I’m sorry,” John says.

Lestrade swallows. “Of course it doesn’t surprise me. It never did. Even before we found his phone.”

John rubs his eyes and returns Lestrade’s tortured look.

“I’m sorry, okay?” Lestrade adds. “I’m...” his voice breaks, “so sorry. He... was a good man.”

John nods and manages a smile. Did Mycroft feel like this when he lied to John? John almost snorts. Of course he didn’t. He’s Mycroft.  
“The best. The very best,” his voice trails off at the end and he sighs. “ _That_ ’s what I’m doing.”

Lestrade shifts and clears his throat, nodding. “Yeah. Figured. Listen... if you need help.” He stops and huffs. “Though you seem to be doing alright with gathering evidence,” he says pointedly.

John smirks, tiredly.

“Mycroft?” Lestrade asks, though he knows the answer.

“Who else?” Then John remembers something. “And about that phone... I just uploaded the audio recording to my blog.”

Lestrade gapes for two seconds, wants to yell something indignant about how it was even possible for John to have that... and instead releases his breath and visibly slumps. “Mycroft,” he says again.

John huffs, sounding tired. “He feels like he has amends to make,” he says, noncommittally.

Lestrade straightens. “Damn right, he has.”

Ah. So John wasn’t the only one to make that connection. He looks up again.

Lestrade can’t uphold the eye contact for long and stares at the carpet. “I knew it definitely wasn’t you, as much as I knew he was for real.” He clears his throat. “Now, I know I’m to blame, too.” He licks his lips and waves his arms once. “I know that. But I never betrayed him.” He rubs the bridge of his nose. “I keep thinking...” he has to stop for a second, “... if maybe we could have prevented... all of this from happening, had he just allowed us to take him in.”

John begins to see the disadvantage of being _’in the know’_ , so to speak.

“We could have cleared up that he didn’t have anything to do with any of the crimes!” Lestrade continues, losing against his restraint. “It was easy enough during the reviews; it would have been even easier with his statement.” He swallows. “When Donovan saw all the reviews trickle back, she lost it. Threw up for half an hour and everything. Anderson tries to shrug it off, saying how he did the only right thing, but he hasn’t spoken to anyone unless it’s work related.” He huffs, almost sounding amused if it wasn’t so obvious that it is tearing him apart. “Of course, Sherlock would say that that was an improvement...” He chokes on the last word and falls silent, his fist pressed to his lips and his eyes closed.

John remains silent and realises that he couldn’t have held up pretence in the beginning, right after… the fall and the hospital. He was having a hard enough time of it, now. He hates to admit it, but Sherlock was right to keep him in the dark. Pain or no.

Lestrade clears his throat and swallows. “But you two...” He shakes his head. “Nobody loved that boy like you did.”

John doesn’t comment on the _’boy’_ , either, though it makes him smile a bit. For Lestrade, Sherlock would forever be the brilliant boy that needed looking after.

“And nobody could have done for him what you did.” Lestrade looks straight at John, awe in his eyes. “I didn’t think it was even possible. For him to... come alive like he did with you... by his side.” He takes a deep breath. “He was a great and a good man, and I want you to know that I knew that. And that...” he is grasping for words, “... and that he knew how important you were. To him.”

John folds his hands and rests his chin on them. “I do know.” What to say?

“If only...”

“No,” John interrupts him and shakes his head. “You know there was nothing either you or I could have done. You know that, don’t you?”

“Doesn’t stop me from wishing for something.” He closes his eyes for a moment again. “Even if it doesn’t do any good anymore.”

“You’ll drive yourself mad looking for something, and madder if you find it.”

Lestrade smiles, painfully.

“There was nothing we could have done,” John repeats. He knows it’s true, too. It was Sherlock’s plan after all, and neither he nor Lestrade could have thwarted a Holmes plan. “And there was nothing _he_ could have done.” Again. He knows that’s true, as well. Had there been anything, Sherlock would have found it. “At least not while being the man we both know he was.”

Lestrade can’t hold back a small laugh. It hurts, too, but... “He was, wasn’t he?” He rubs his tired eyes. “God, I miss that stroppy bastard.”

“Me too,” John agrees softly. It’s easy to agree. But, goodness, that whole not saying anything is difficult. Especially, not saying anything to someone who must have cared nearly as much for Sherlock as John does.

 _’Not a word. Not to anyone. Walls have mice, and mice have ears.’_ Mycroft’s words still ring in John’s ears. Not that he actually needed to hear them. He knows. John is still a soldier. A soldier who remembers that, not too long ago, there has been a hidden camera in this very room… He hopes that Lestrade will eventually be able to forgive him and Sherlock the deception. John isn’t even quite sure _he_ has that much forgiveness in him. Not for a while, yet. That does not keep him from doing what he has always done: stand by his friend (and miss him).

“John… listen…” Lestrade speaks up. “If you ever feel like coming ‘round the pub…”

John huffs. “Not sure I can stomach Donovan or Anderson.”

Lestrade waves him off before he can even finish the sentence. “Just you and me. The last bastion of trust.” He smiles but swallows painfully. “Though that is going to change, again, isn’t it.” He nods towards the laptop. “It’ll be all over the news again. How they _all_ of course knew that Sherlock Holmes couldn’t _possibly_ have been a fake.” He shoves his hands into his jacket pockets. “Bastards,” he murmurs, then shrugs. “Better late than never, I suppose.”

John feels the last bit of anger towards Lestrade lift. “Text me about the pub, will you, Greg?” He hasn’t called him Greg, not since…

Lestrade smiles and nods. “Will do. You text me if you need help?” There’s an unvoiced _’please’_ added to that. _’Please. Please, let me help.’_

John clears his throat. “I guess you’ll have plenty of press phone calls to deal with, very soon…” He lifts an eyebrow.

Lestrade barks a laugh. “Funny. That part I don’t miss at all.” He sniffs and tilts his head, as if shrugging something off. “Then again, I owe _someone_ for keeping me in my position…” He eyes the stack of files on the table, before returning John’s look. “Meddling bastard.”

John grins a bit. He almost says something about Mycroft not being the only meddling Holmes. Sheer habit, he knows. “Just… keep up your work,” he says instead.

“Will do. You too.”

They nod at each other and Lestrade leaves.

John remains unmoving for a long time. Again, he has to resist the urge to talk to his absent friend – walls, mice and ears – and walks to the mantelpiece to pick up the skull. He smiles at it and shakes his head.

Decisively, he returns to the table, puts the skull next to his laptop and sits back down.

“I find myself suddenly very appreciative of you, friend,” he says to it. 

The mice won’t care about that.

 

_TBC_


	3. Unravelling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time.

At first, John thinks that the various images and links to images that suddenly pop up in the comment section of his blog have been a new development after he has started rebuilding Sherlock’s name. The flood of answers, accompanied yet again with links to images, blogs and discussion groups, shows him just how wrong he was.

It’s not that people stopped believing in Sherlock and then suddenly changed their minds once law enforcement had to admit that maybe Sherlock hadn’t been a fraud. It’s that John has walked through this city with his eyes tightly shut. Has left his blog locked for commenting. Hasn’t opened any letters or taken any calls he wasn’t expecting.

Only to now open his eyes to see the support. See the wildly flying theories about _’Richard Brook’_ in blogs. (He is surprised to find several discussion forums that have figured out that the so-called story-telling DVD was a fake, only one day after the… incident at Bart’s. They have researched the name and found that there is no Richard Brook with that career and education. And much to John’s befuddlement, one forum even has the theory that _’Rich Brook’_ is a wordplay to further mock the Reichenbach hero.) He sees the flyers, the graffiti, the t-shirts, the buttons. Finds himself grinning helplessly at his laptop’s screen.

He rubs his eyes and pats his friend’s stand-in that is still sitting on the table on top of its bony head.

“No, I agree,” he says. “He doesn’t need the ego boost.”

He prefers this kind of attention to the one the press are suddenly giving him again. The demand for interviews is stupid. All he knows is in his blog, anyway, and he doesn’t exactly feel warmly towards that pack of hyenas. Kitty Riley’s extensive series of articles published over the course of two weeks, in which she both heartbreakingly (and media-effectively) admits her involvement in discrediting Sherlock and in great detail describes the genius of the dead hero, are certainly satisfying to read, but John still gives her an unmistakeable _’no way in any level of hell you can possibly imagine’_ when she asks for an exclusive interview.

*

Once Lestrade drops by again, John isn’t surprised. The Inspector looks slightly embarrassed, however.

“I’m afraid it’s your turn, John.”

John sighs. He has of course known that it would be only a matter of time until he was called in for questioning.

“We just need you to confirm some things. Shouldn’t take too long.”

John nods. There isn’t anything else for him to do. He has worked his way through all the files and has written down all his conclusions to go with them. He does keep an eye out for the discussion forums (who knows what else they can come up with), but there would be time for that later.

On their way to the Yard, John asks, “How are things at the station?”

Lestrade rolls his eyes. “Like a bloody soap opera, I tell you.”

John huffs, amused.

“That whole clique mentality is getting out of hand. Funny, though, how one of the groups from before,” he doesn’t elaborate on that _’before’_ , “doesn’t even exist anymore. Nobody dares to utter a word against the dead.” For a second, he is almost surprised that he managed to say the last word without his voice breaking. “Still…” he adds, growing more quiet, “… I take the hypocrisy to bashing Sherlock any day.”

John nods. “I saw some of the…” he can’t hold back a small chuckle, “ _’I believe in Sherlock’_ movement.”

Lestrade squints at him briefly before returning his attention to the traffic. “You didn’t know about that?”

John looks out the window and shakes his head. “I wasn’t exactly in a state to notice.”

Lestrade nods. “I hear you. There were days where I wished I could have just disappeared.”

They remain quiet for a while, until Lestrade laughs.

“By the way. The Chief Superintendent?”

John turns his head, lifting his eyebrow as if to say, _’That one?’_

Lestrade nods. “The very same. Donovan and Anderson reported what exactly he said to me that day, since they were the only ones present. And, apparently, somebody thought that it must be a pretty stupid Chief Superintendent who managed to miss that Sherlock’s been consulting the Yard for years, what with the media spotlight he’d been in.” He shrugs. “I guess somebody’s head _had_ to roll.”

John grins.

“When you see Mycroft,” Lestrade continues, not even asking if John thinks he’ll see the Holmes brother, “tell him I said thanks.”

*

John answers the questions dutifully, confirms everything the officers already know. Cases, deductions, memories. He doesn’t have to fake the tremor in his voice when he gets to the final incident.

Lestrade, bless him, interrupts at that point. “Okay, that’s enough! We already know what happened, there, Sergeant.”

John stands, leaves the room and sees the next witness to be questioned.

Molly very nearly flinches when she sees him, and for the first time since the funeral, John understands why. He manages a sad little smile and walks towards her.

“Hello, Molly.”

Her lips tremble. “Hello, John.”

John pulls her into a hug and whispers – barely more than a wisp of air, “Thank you for helping him.” Because he has already decided that he owes her more thanks than resentment. Had Sherlock not had the help he needed… He doesn’t finish that thought.

Lestrade guides Molly into the interrogation room, once John lets go of her. “Don’t worry,” the Inspector assures her. “It’ll be over in a flash.”

She turns her head, just long enough to exchange another look with John, and while nothing changes about her appearance that John could put a finger on, an invisible weight seems to have left her.

John doesn’t get far after that and ends up in the closest pub. He is hardly surprised when he sees Molly enter after a good two hours, appearing as if she’s had the same thought as John: out of the Yard and into I-don’t-even-care.

When she sees him, he worries for a second that she might feel safe to talk openly, even though the setting isn’t safe in the least. He’s not sure even Mycroft’s office is truly safe. How had Mycroft put it? His agents all “spy on people for money”... But John needn’t have worried. Molly quietly joins him and – like John – doesn’t even order something alcoholic. It wouldn’t do to lose inhibitions, would it?

Neither of them speaks until Molly has her juice in front of her.

“How did the questioning go?” John asks.

Molly nods, no more than two jerky motions, staring into her glass, before she looks up with a smile full of guilt.

John merely returns the smile with a warm one. Molly isn’t the one to blame. Just like John’s, her trust in Sherlock has never wavered. In that at least they are pathetically similar.

“Fine,” she finally says. “It was standard procedure, really. They just wanted to know how often... he was at Bart’s, what he was doing, and if I thought his deductions could in any way be forged.” Her jaw sets. “They couldn’t be, of course.”

“We’re both doctors, you and I. They should have asked us sooner.”

Molly nods again. “But then again, I do post-mortems.” She freezes, and for a second, she almost looks uncertain again. As if maybe she has read John wrong. She averts her eyes. “The, uh... dead don’t usually walk at Bart’s.” She ventures a short glimpse up from under her bangs.

John has his hands folded in front of his lips. He looks calm. “No, I don’t think that they usually do.” John doesn’t quite dare to put emphasis on the word _’usually’_ , but there is something about his eyes that does it for him.

They fall silent again, after that. Neither is surprised when after a while, Lestrade enters and joins them.

“I would have thought you’d be in a state to get pissed,” he remarks, his voice rough.

“Wouldn’t solve anything,” John says.

“No. I don’t imagine that it would,” Lestrade admits and sighs. He has a pint, anyway. Then another.

*

Life after that is one of waiting. John can’t say that he likes it. He has started working at Bart’s – courtesy of several pulled strings, he knows – keeps an eye out for Greg and regularly bothers Mycroft.

Mycroft’s replies are so constant, they might be considered to be hypnotic if they weren’t so annoying.

_He reports back. He is safe. I’m keeping a close eye on him. And, no, there’s nothing you can do._

John is ready to bite someone’s head off. This couldn’t be it, could it? Sherlock is chasing assassins, the whole of a criminal empire, and all John is supposed to do is sit tight and hope for the best?

After one particular visit with _Big Brother_ , John storms out with the words, “A life where Sherlock doesn’t return isn’t worth working for!”

John finds Lestrade on his doorstep the next day, asking him to help with a case. John doesn’t know whether to thank or curse Mycroft. He decides to help out with the case in the meantime. Only until he can figure out his response, of course.

* * *

It takes several months and almost twice as many cases (during which John’s consulting isn’t even all that bad, if he does say so himself), before John comes close to regretting his wish for the wait to be over.

It’s in the middle of the night when his phone rings, and he reaches for it, blinking at the bright screen. His eyes widen briefly before he answers.

Mycroft’s voice doesn’t even allow him to utter a greeting. “Get dressed and wake Mrs Hudson. My car will pick both of you up in five minutes. It would appear that my brother was unsuccessful in tracking the last of Moriarty’s associates before he was discovered. They’re both on their way, and I’m afraid the assassin has a head start.” 

The line goes dead, and John jumps out of his bed and is half dressed, before he can so much as think about it. He runs down the stairs in less than two minutes, and the stray thought flitters through his mind that it is a bit like one of those 3 a.m. drills he still remembers from his army days. His gun feels familiar against his lower back.

He uses his key for Mrs Hudson’s apartment and rushes into her bedroom to shake the woman awake.

“We need to leave, right now,” he says, using his most urgent voice. “Hurry!” he adds and waits outside of her bedroom. When she doesn’t appear after another two minutes, he turns towards the door, again. “Mrs Hudson!” he hisses, not sure whether or not yelling might jeopardise their venture. “No time, Mrs Hudson!”

She is by his side within a short moment. “What is going on?” she asks, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders.

John doesn’t answer, just lays an arm around her and guides her to the front door. He waits, expecting Mycroft to... His phone announces a text message and he quickly reads it. 

_Car. –MH_

He opens the door, shielding Mrs Hudson with his body, and then he can see one of Mycroft’s nondescript, black limousines stop, the back door open and Anthea looking out and gesturing them inside. He wraps both arms around Mrs Hudson while guiding her to the car, his eyes darting along one side of the street to the other, checking vantage points. He doesn’t stop until he closes the door behind himself.

“Lestrade,” John says without preamble. “We need to get Lestrade. He was on the list, too.”

Anthea furiously types on her phone, frowning. “He can’t be reached. He’s partaking in a raid.”

“Dammit!” John punches the seat, and Mrs Hudson flinches next to him. “Get me to wherever he is,” he demands after only a short moment’s hesitation. “And then bring Mrs Hudson to Mycroft.”

“My orders...”

“I don’t give a flying fuck about your orders!” John bellows. “Mrs Hudson and I aren’t home, which for anyone with half a brain can only mean that we’re being brought to safety; Lestrade can’t be reached and is at an open venue that may be swarming with officers, but that won’t be of any use against a sniper.” It’s definitely the Captain and not the Doctor speaking. “And now guess where Sherlock will be headed,” he asks, his voice hard and cold as steel.

John can hear Mrs Hudson’s soft voice asking, “Sherlock?” but he doesn’t take his eyes off Anthea. He lays his hand on Mrs Hudson’s shaking shoulder, letting her know that he does take notice.

Anthea doesn’t reply. Not until she gets a text message and only barely refrains from sighing in annoyance. She leans forward to the driver. “Follow the police radio.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

John relaxes marginally, rubs Mrs Hudson’s shoulder and allows himself to share a look with her. She doesn’t look as surprised as he thought she would. 

“I didn’t really dare to hope,” is all she says, sounding teary, and he kisses her cheek. “But we’ll be having words, young man.”

John smiles a bit helplessly. “Yes, Ma’am.”

 

The police appear to be in the middle of busting a smuggler ring, seeing as the raid is taking place in a warehouse at the docks. John practically jumps out of the car once he has repeated to Anthea that Mrs Hudson is to be brought to safety immediately and looks for Lestrade. He finds him standing on the street next to a police car, talking to an officer.

“Greg!” he yells, jogging towards him, his eyes mapping out their surroundings. God. A sniper could be anywhere in this cramped mess of large buildings with high windows.

Lestrade frowns but still dismisses the officer. “John. What are you doing here?”

John grabs him by the arm and pulls him to the emptied out building. “You need to get out of the open, now.”

Lestrade lets himself be manhandled but pulls his arm free the moment they’re inside the warehouse. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He uses his best DI voice, making it clear that John has no business there, no matter how much he might like the man.

“Remember those three assassins trained on us and Mrs Hudson? The ones who would fire if Sherlock didn’t go through with it?” It’s a rhetorical question. Of course they both remember. Lestrade doesn’t know how often he’s had to listen to the recording of Sherlock speaking to that maniac.

“And?”

John hesitates, licks his lips and looks for a delicate way of putting things. Eventually, he gives up. “The deal’s off,” is all he says, holding Lestrade’s eyes firmly with his, adding as much meaning as he can to the piercing look alone.

It takes Lestrade several heartbeats long to follow. Then he forgets to breathe for another few. “Jesus,” he rushes out. He keeps his eyes on John for long enough to be certain that he hasn’t got it all wrong, then his eyes widen, his head tilts back, and he puts his hands on his hips pivoting on the spot, as if trying to make the world stop spinning. “Jesus... FUCKING _CHRIST_!”

“According to Mycroft, there’s only one left, and I guess we can assume that that one knows what he’s doing.”

Lestrade has stopped spinning and only sways back and forth now.

“Mrs Hudson is being brought away,” John continues, “but you were unreachable, so...”

“How much time?”

“Not much. Mycroft sounded urgent. And you know how he is.” He wants to add something about Mycroft probably having people on their way, already, but two loud bangs and breaking glass outside interrupt him.

Their heads swivel towards the door and both listen. There’s yelling and officers barking orders.

John inches closer to the door, only to see that there are two broken windows in the building opposite with officers already storming it. The glass is really the only thing showing gun fire, and what with the buildings around, John has no doubt that there would be too much of an echo to triangulate the shooter just from hearing the shots. He sighs.

Lestrade is behind him, both of them ducking in the shadows, and he comes to the same conclusion. “The sniper is in _this_ building, isn’t he?” he whispers.

John’s jaw sets. “And we can’t go out. Your comm? Phone?”

They share a look, and John knows the answer before Lestrade can give it. “By the car.”

John sighs. “And he most likely saw us go inside, and now we won’t go out despite the gunfire.”

“He knows we’re onto him,” Lestrade finishes.

They both look around. They’re actually in a good spot. They can see both the entrance and the only other way into the corridor they’re standing in. There are no windows. But...

“How long until he starts shooting bystanders to get to us?” Lestrade asks, keeping an eye on the corridor and pulls his gun. He curses silently. He doesn’t have any way of communicating with his team, he doesn’t know any numbers by heart, and calling the emergency would take too long to redirect to the right place. “Do you know any of their phone numbers,” he asks and nods towards the entrance.

John shakes his head. Then he freezes. “Donovan,” he says and looks for his phone, one handed (he is _not_ going to let go of his gun). “She sent me a text a couple of weeks ago, saying that Kitty Riley had her driver’s license revoked for speeding.” He huffs. “She probably thought it would cheer me up.”

“And did it?” Lestrade, ignoring the regulations that had been broken.

John smiles, grimly. “Yes.” He dials the number and hands the phone to Lestrade.

She doesn’t answer, so Lestrade furiously sends a text.

_Pick up! -Lestrade_

She rings back. “Greg? That’s John’s phone. What the hell is going on?” There’s the sound of shouting people in the background.

“You’re still out there?”

“Yes.”

“Get everyone out of the open! We have a sniper, and he’s in the building we just cleared, not the one you’re searching now!”

“And where the hell are you?”

“Already inside.”

There is a sound from beyond the corridor, and Lestrade disconnects the call before he can even think about it. He silently hands John the phone, they share one look and both agree that staying where they are is not an option. They keep their guns trained on the door into the main cargo area; Lestrade is the one to open it and peeks out. From where they are right in that moment, they can’t be hit, and he’s reasonably certain that they can make it to behind the crates only a few metres further into the large hall. He nods his head towards the crates, and they dart through the door, hunched, falling to the floor when the sound of a gunshot echoes through the hall.

The shot hits the wall just beside them, and they both breathe heavily. Close.

“He’s a good shot,” John remarks. “Bit trigger-happy for a professional.”

Lestrade knows what John means. Had the shooter waited, they would have eventually tried to move, and the sniper would have had the second longer it would have taken to take proper aim.  
“Because emotional fanatics are so much easier to deal with,” Lestrade grumbles sarcastically.

This shot also had the added advantage (for John and Lestrade, anyway) of only echoing within the building... The shooter has confirmed Lestrade’s call to Donovan, and they can hear the police outside react accordingly.

*

Donovan is barking orders. “Surround the building, and take the cars for cover!” Her eyes dart over the large windows of the building, not seeing so much as a shadow. But Lestrade is inside, quite possibly Watson as well, and they have just all heard the shot coming from within. Sniper! What in the everliving fuck was a sniper doing here?!

An officer approaches her (runs towards her, rather). “Sergeant! The Inspector and Doctor Watson are inside.” He quickly gasps for breath. “Apparently, Doctor Watson said something about getting him out of the open.”

“Where did they go in?”

The officer points. “The door to the right of the cargo entrance.”

Sally hasn’t been in the service this long for nothing. She can connect a thing or two. She gestures the three new cars that are arriving to circle the building on the right side, grabs a comm and secures it to her ear, then she turns to the officer. “When the secret service or anyone else attempting to take over gets here, let me know immediately!” Because, really, if John Watson arrives at a raid with secret knowledge about some assassin, it means that the one Holmes left alive has his hands in it.

“Yes, Sergeant.” The officer nods, curtly and heads for the roadblock they have established.

She checks the windows again and deems it safe enough to try and circle the building with the cars she just sent ahead. There are fewer windows on the side of the building, and she does have reason to believe that the sniper is busy with the two people already inside, but she still keeps an eye on them.

She briefly contemplates trying to communicate with the sniper, but she dismisses the thought quickly. It’s not like he doesn’t know that the building’s surrounded and about to be stormed, most likely sooner rather than later.

A dull sound from inside startles her. She frowns. Definitely not a gunshot... and then she sees obscuring smoke rise behind the windows.

“Crap,” she exhales. The storming would have to wait, then. The chances that her police officers would get killed first, and in return would most likely shoot either Lestrade or Watson instead of the killer just rose exponentially. The shooter would hide safely in the smoke, while whoever opened the door and entered with fresh air would pretty much be a sitting duck.

She checks her gun out of reflex and tells the first officer next to her, “Only storm the building when you get the order from either Lestrade or me, or when neither of us answers any calls.” She grabs an additional comm from the car, tucks it in her jacket pocket and runs towards a side door. None of the doors have been locked again, after the raid, and she slides inside.  
Yes, she is breaking regulations, and, no, she doesn’t give a fuck. The little, rational voice in the back of her head is effectively silenced.

She finds herself next to two offices, the third door leading towards the main cargo area. She wants to call in another team on this side to secure the exit, but then there’s another shot, and she ignores regulation even more and heads for the cargo area.

Like John and Lestrade, she is mostly hid from sight by crates and makes use of that to enter further into the hall. The heavy door bangs closed loudly behind her. She bites her lip hard, annoyed at her own negligence and presses closer to the wooden crate. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck. Try to move location or wait to be caught? Rock or hard place?

In the end, her nerves get the better of her, she peeks around her hiding place towards where the next row of crates is located and calculates how long it would take her to get there.  
She takes a deep breath, makes a move forward, and...

... is bodily yanked backwards, a gloved hand closing over her mouth, just as the sound of another shot rings through the silence. The panic distracts her body for long enough that she only notices the burning sting in her leg when she tries to struggle against her assailant.

With a practiced twist, she is being turned around – the move is so that neither the firm hold nor the hand over her mouth is released for even a second – to stare into clear, grey eyes. The hand on her mouth eases off and the other is mostly used to keep her from falling. Sally knows that she would have flatout passed out without the adrenaline pumping through her system because of the gunshot.  
She is being eased to a sitting position on the floor, her leg now screaming in agony.

The man doesn’t speak, he merely takes off his scarf and tightly and efficiently wraps it around her bleeding thigh.

She shakes herself. No time to freak out. _’John and Greg,’_ she mouths when he looks up.

Sherlock merely nods and without further ado takes her gun that she hasn’t let go of. _’Don’t move from here,’_ he mouths. His eyes briefly fall to her wrist, and he then looks into her eyes, smirking _the_ most annoyingly smug smirk in his arsenal before darting towards the other side of the crates.

Sally is confused through the haze of pain and adrenaline for all of five seconds, before she remembers her _’I Believe’_ bracelet. “God, I hate him,” she can’t hold back that whisper, nor can she hold back the self-deprecating smile. “Bastard.”

Her comm crackles and a tinny voice asks for orders. She leans further against the crate, doing her level best to melt into it and answers. “Hold. Do not move yet. Secure the exits.” She is reasonably sure that the freak wouldn’t leave on his own and be shot accidentally. Not while John and Greg were inside, she has to admit grudgingly. She _has_ heard the recording on the phone. Even if it nearly killed her to listen to it. She had been so sure that she was doing the right thing. It was the only solution that made sense. Nobody could be… _that_ good. Except, apparently, Sherlock Holmes.

Annoyed, mostly at herself, she yanks off the bracelet. She doesn’t need to see that look of glee on his face again, it would only make her angry at him, and she guiltily feels like she isn’t allowed that emotion, any longer.  
She puts the bracelet in her pocket. She decides to keep it (for now), even though she won’t be wearing it.

Another gunshot ends her self-indulgent musings and she moves towards the side Sherlock has gone, when there are two more shots in quick succession. Then steps. Quiet.

Sally struggles to her feet, keeps most of the weight off her injured leg and moves towards the edge of the crate to peek around. “Lestrade!”

“Got him!” comes the answer. “We got him!”

“Anyone else hurt?” she calls back and hobbles around the corner.

“No!”

She contacts the units outside. “Shooter incapacitated,” she says into her mouthpiece and chooses not to add, _’I hope he’s dead.’_ “You can move in.”

The main gate slides open, letting air in and smoke out, as Sally hobbles towards where she heard Lestrade call.

The DI is crouching next to the body of the assassin lying on the floor. He has clearly been shot while he was on one of the upper balconies and then fell.

Sally only briefly takes notice of them. The next thing she sees is two other figures – both of them hunched but neither of them dead – their arms wound tightly around each other.

“My God, Sally!” Lestrade calls out and runs towards her in an instant, letting the entering officers take care of the body. “Did you get hit?”

She waves him off but feels some pain ease off when he steadies her. “Could have been worse.” Her eyes stay on Sherlock. Eventually, she sighs. “I never did get what he saw in him.”

Lestrade makes his own deductions from the scarf around Sally’s leg. “Which one?” he asks, refraining from pointing out anything obvious.

Sally huffs, amused. “He’s still a dick.”

Lestrade doesn’t contradict her. Well... he can’t argue that one.

*

John isn’t entirely sure what happens after the smoke fills up the room from three different locations, but it definitely happens fast. The smoke bombs have been thrown from above, John can tell from the way they bounce off the ground, meaning he and Lestrade were at a serious disadvantage.

He nods towards the upstairs balconies along the side walls, carrying cargo cranes and similar devices, and Lestrade pulls a face but nods.

Lestrade parts his arms to both sides of the crate their behind. _’Split?’_

John doesn’t like it, but against a sniper, the only solution is to give him two separate targets. He nods.

They both move immediately. The smoke is now dense enough to obscure even the view of someone who is looking for them, but it won’t be like that for long.

John is looking for a convenient way upstairs and assumes that Lestrade would be doing the same, both of them knowing that it is also be the first place a sniper would expect them to go. He manages to get unseen from one stack of crates to the next, closer to a small, metal stairway to one side, far enough from where he has seen the sniper last to at least hope that he would not be immediately spotted.

He is already on the stairs when he realises his mistake. Not all that trigger-happy, after all, then, he thinks when he sees the dark shadow move upstairs from the corner of his eyes. He tenses, grips the railing and is about to throw himself over it when the shot sounds.

Even in this situation, he can tell that it was neither from above nor a rifle, but a hand gun from somewhere down below.

The shadow moves abruptly, and so does John.

Now that he is turned towards the sniper, he can see that he is pointing his rifle the other way and fires. John doesn’t hesitate and fires a shot of his own. The sniper is hit and falls, and only then does John realise that the sniper hasn’t fired in the direction Lestrade had gone, but somewhere much closer to John...

“Sherlock,” he whispers before he runs down the stairs.

“Lestrade!” he hears Sally yell from yet another spot. He can see Lestrade turn the broken body on the ground onto its back and... then... 

_He_ is there. Appearing like a ghost from out of the smoke, breaking into a run once he sees John.

John doesn’t have the time to catalogue the unusual expression of panic, relief and something else on his friend’s face. He has his arms full of him within the blink of an eye, and his legs give out, causing them both to fall to the ground and hold hold hold.

John can hear other people around them, but he doesn’t care. All he cares about is that he has a warm, breathing, living being in his arms. Living, not bloody, broken and lifeless. Living.

“Forgive me,” Sherlock breathes into his neck, hardly audible.

And John shakes his head. Not because he wouldn’t forgive his friend, but how could he even ask? This stupid, stupid, brilliant man. How does he not know that he would forgive him anything? Way more than he probably should? How does he not know that there is no need to forgive having one’s heart broken, when the only reason that there even _is_ a heart is living and not dead and _back_. Later, John knows he will have demands for promises, _oaths_ , that he would make sure Sherlock would keep. Promises of contingency plans. Promises of _plans_. _Their_ plans.

But not now. Now, he clings and holds and is being held as tightly, as if Sherlock is the one who is afraid that John might disappear, and not the other way around.

John presses a kiss into the neck his face is hiding in. “You stupid idiot,” he forces out.

Sherlock chuckles, and it sounds as wet as John’s eyes feel.

John releases his hold, only to frame Sherlock’s face in both his hands so that he can look at him. 

And Sherlock smiles, just a tiny one, as if he is unsure if the gesture would be welcomed, but John returns it with a wide one of his own, and Sherlock’s reacts accordingly.

“Idiot,” John repeats, his voice breaking and his eyes welling up again.

Sherlock just nods, there would be time for arguing the matter, later. Time. They have time, again, they both realise in the same moment.

John stares into those amazing eyes, once more bright and vibrant, taking in everything. He hopes that one day, they will replace the memory of the ghastly, empty and bleak ones from his nightmares.  
His vision blurs, but he doesn’t take his eyes off the other man, until he can’t help himself any longer, and pulls him close to press a firm kiss onto his lips, before crushing him into another hug.

Neither of them says that people might talk, and neither of them cares; they both have their best friend back, the only one to ever fill that one part of the other.

Neither has ever felt so loved in his life.

 

_TBC_

120214  
Happy Valentine’s Day ♥


	4. Undivided

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has MA-ish content.

They start out in two different beds. Really, they do. Two different rooms, even. Sherlock in his, John upstairs.

John eventually gives up trying to talk himself into believing that he is perfectly fine in his room, and that the thoughts of Sherlock not having truly returned are completely irrational and pointless at sometime around three in the morning. And that is three in the morning after having been woken in the middle of the night twenty-four hours earlier and a marathon day at Scotland Yard for him and Sherlock that lasted until well after dinner time (dinner, as well as breakfast and lunch, consisted of something sandwich-y and coffee).

He gets out of bed, telling himself he will sit on the couch, and, honestly, he will only peek into Sherlock’s bedroom for a second, just for long enough to know that the other man is really there.

He comes down the stairs and stops in the doorway to the living room. Sherlock is sitting on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, staring into space and looking as exhausted as John feels.

“Can’t sleep?” John asks, and Sherlock startles. No, the detective is not in his best form if he doesn’t hear John come down the stairs. There’s at least two steps that creak, never mind that even bare-footed, Sherlock would normally hear him.

Sherlock with his big eyes directed at John looks oddly embarrassed, a bit like a kid caught with his hand in a cookie jar. He quickly shakes himself, though. “Nightmares?” he asks John instead of answering.

John indulges him – because he always does, and it is distinctly easy to just fall back into old patterns – and sits next to him. “No. Just… stupidly afraid that when I close my eyes, I will wake up two days ago.” He contemplates that. “Or worse.” The _worse_ namely consisting of the two weeks after the fall, but he doesn’t say it. Sherlock can hear it anyway.

Sherlock’s jaw sets, and John can see his Adam’s apple bob a bit. Then he opens his left arm that is closest to John and invites him under the blanket. He never turns his head to look at John, doesn’t urge, just invites.

John doesn’t need urging and slips closer, the arm and the blanket settling warmly around him.

“I kept doing it, you know,” Sherlock finally says, softly. So softly, that John for a second isn’t even sure the words are directed at him. “Like I used to…”

John settles closer still when Sherlock pauses, leaning his head against the pointy shoulder. He doesn’t urge either. He invites.

“I would… be in a hotel room. A flat. Somewhere,” Sherlock says, uncharacteristically nondescript, but John has a feeling the words aren’t about the location or the surrounding adventure. Not this time.  
“I would… talk to you.” The words come from deep within, or possibly far away. Far away from some empty room that was not home, did not contain a John.  
Sherlock suddenly breathes in sharply, as if he only just remembered that he hasn’t finished the thought and isn’t in a place that isn’t here. “Then I would turn around, expecting to see you there, expecting your smile because I’d done something smart.”  
His eyes briefly flicker to the top of John’s head on his shoulder, and he can see the other man’s closed eyes and wet lashes. He has to stare ahead again; he can’t finish that sentence while looking at his friend.  
“And you weren’t there.”

John swallows and clears his throat. “I missed you too.”

Sherlock nods. “I must thank you.”

John perches up a bit, but doesn’t lift his head.

“I couldn’t risk letting you know. I must thank you… for noticing. It… soothed my mind.”

John chuckles. “It certainly soothed mine, I can tell you that.” He does lift his head, now, smiling at Sherlock.

It takes a moment, but Sherlock eventually smiles back. He sobers quickly, though, just looking at John. “I am sorry for the pain I caused you.”

John nods. “I know you are.”

“That I am capable of this kind of regret is down to you, and I don’t know whether I should thank you or curse you for it.”

John purses his lips. “Do you feel like thanking me or cursing me for it, now?”

Sherlock doesn’t hesitate. “Thanking you.”

John grins, ruefully. “I’ll remind you of this moment, then, when you feel like cursing me, later.”

It startles a laugh out of Sherlock, and John feels very thankful as well.

With proof of his friend’s continuing existence right there with him, John soon falls asleep.

 

When he wakes up, he is lying next to Sherlock, his head resting on the warm chest with the steady beat resounding in his ear. He briefly wonders how there is even enough room for both of them on the narrow couch, but once he blinks his eyes open, he can see the backrest cushions lying on the floor and grins.

Feeling quite warm and comfortable, he sighs and closes his eyes some more.

After a while, a voice rumbles along with the heartbeat.

“If you’d rather not be caught in this somewhat compromising position, I suggest you get up…”

John merely groans in response. He is still comfortably wrapped in arms and blanket and doesn’t care much about anything, much less _’being caught’_ …

The hand resting on his shoulder shakes him a bit. “John?”

“Hm?” He remains unconvinced that there is a solid reason to move.

Sherlock chuckles. “Lestrade will be standing in this room in about thirty seconds.”

“Hm.”

Sherlock would be lying if he said he gave a fuck about Lestrade walking in now, but he felt it prudent to at least give John the chance to have his say. He tells himself that asking John for his say while the man is half asleep is sufficient. Whether or not John will be annoyed with him, later, Sherlock isn’t quite so sure, but right in that moment, it feels good and he relaxes his arms that are still wrapped around John, sighs and closes his eyes for the remaining fifteen or so seconds of quiet he has.

As it turns out, he has almost a whole minute. Not because he miscalculated (of course not), but because Lestrade remains standing and silent in the doorway for quite some time before he goes for a perfunctory knock on the doorframe.

John’s “Hm” sounds decidedly more grumpy this time around, and it makes Sherlock chuckle.

“Hold still,” John demands, which makes Sherlock laugh more.

Sherlock opens his eyes and looks at the Detective Inspector who takes in the scene before him with a familiar exasperated/fond look. Sherlock can’t help but grin at him. “It’s a bit early for you. Didn’t we spend enough time at the Yard, yesterday?”

“There’s a media circus, outside,” Lestrade informs him, and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

John grumbles some more, but finally stirs awake. “Wonderful.” He pushes himself into a sitting position and rubs his face. “Should I even dare look out the window?”

Lestrade shifts a bit. “I wouldn’t, to be quite honest. But it’s better than it was an hour ago. We cashiered some of them away for obstructing traffic.” He frowns. “It’s a miracle nobody rang the doorbell.”

Sherlock sits next to John. “Not for lack of trying, I assure you.” He shares a look with John and both laugh.

Lestrade rolls his eyes. “That’s why I always knock.”

“Was there anything in particular you wanted, Detective Inspector?” Sherlock asks. “Or did you just drop by to inform us of the press reaction?”

Lestrade fidgets. “Just checking if everything’s okay, here.”

Sherlock looks confused, but John smiles warmly and moves to get up.

Sherlock’s hand reflexively reaches for John’s.

“Tea?” John asks, but doesn’t remove his hand.

Sherlock nods and lets go. His left hand falls limply into his lap where it reaches for the right, clasping tightly. Suddenly, he looks thoroughly uncomfortable. He doesn’t look up when Lestrade sits next to him.

Lestrade clears his throat. “Good to have you back.”

“Thank you.”

“But for God’s sake, think of something less dramatic next time.”

Sherlock’s lip twitches, and he tilts his head towards the Inspector. “I doubt I would be able to pull that one off, again. Nobody would believe it.”

“Well, good!” Some of the relief turns into anger. “If you _ever_ do something like that again, I’ll punch your bloody lights out, myself!” He seems surprised at himself and runs his hands through his hair.

Sherlock blinks. Of course, he has expected anger, but now that he faces it, he is somewhat at loss and looks for his moral compass in the kitchen.

John leans against the doorway, smiles and nods.

Sherlock purses his lips, shifts in his seat and finally forces out, “I’m sorry.” It doesn’t come as easily as it has with John, and he doesn’t look at Lestrade while he says it. He knows that he is sincere, he knows that there are ample reasons for Lestrade to be hurt and angry and that it warrants an apology. He doesn’t think that offering Lestrade a cuddle under his blanket is a good idea, but another brief look exchange with John confirms that maybe the mumbled words are enough and that he hasn’t committed another social blunder. (He doesn’t think that he will ever top the one where he let everyone who cares about him believe he was dead. That one must be the mother of social blunders, and it is only fitting that he would be the one to make it.)

They don’t talk; they don’t even look at each other until John returns with the tea. Though Sherlock seems to want to protest when John takes a chair and doesn’t return to the couch, he remains quiet.

Lestrade takes his cup with a mumbled thanks and holds it without so much as sipping. “People actually care about you, you idiot!” he suddenly bursts out.

“I said I was sorry!” Sherlock complains.

Lestrade stares for a moment, puts down his cup and looks at John. “Does he even get it?” Before John can answer, however, he shakes his head. “Of course he does. I doubt he’s usually one for cuddles on the couch,” he grumbles. Then he turns towards Sherlock, again. “John’s not the only one, you know.”

Sherlock looks positively scandalised. “I’m not going to _cuddle_ you.”

“I’m not- I don’t…” Lestrade throws up his hands in surrender. “Just stick to cuddling John, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t forget that I actually give half a damn about you, too. God only knows why, because you are one insufferable bastard.” 

Sherlock blinks at him.

“Insufferable,” Lestrade repeats. It bears repeating, though. “But a good man, Sherlock Holmes. And you shouldn’t forget that, either.”

That he’s a good man or that people believe it? Sherlock isn’t certain, nor is he certain if it even matters… Finally, he nods, once. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The talk flows more naturally after that. Sherlock is particularly pleased that Lestrade has come equipped with cold cases for Sherlock to play with until it would be marginally safe to leave the house, again.

Before he leaves, Lestrade stops in the doorway. “You should consider giving a press conference. You know, get it over with. They’re not gonna leave off until they have answers to print, and you know what they do when you won’t give them any. They make ‘em up.”

Sherlock looks about as happy at that prospect as expected. He rolls his eyes, and his lips do that annoyed pouting they’re so good at. Finally, he relents. “I’ll consider it.” Press conference, he can deal with, he thinks. Interviews full of personal irrelevancies are a different matter entirely.

Lestrade nods and puts his hands in his jacket pockets. “We can do a joint one at the Yard. I think it’s in both our interests if I keep an eye on you during it.” He waves at them. “Let me know.”

The moment he’s out of sight, Sherlock looks for John again. He realises that he’s doing it, and he’s not at all sure that he likes that newly adopted reflex of his, but he doesn’t dislike it enough to try and fight it.

John shrugs. “I agree with him. We won’t be able to leave the house at all, if we don’t do any damage control. And maybe you should…” He can’t finish that sentence. It doesn’t feel right, asking _that_ of Sherlock.

“Lie low?”

John releases the breath he’s been holding. “For a bit?” It sounds more like a suggestion than anything.

Sherlock sighs and rubs his face. Then he sighs. “I think… after everything… I can go for a bit without.”

“Just for a bit,” John says, smiling benignly.

Sherlock grins lopsidedly. “Don’t expect miracles.”

John’s playful smile turns honest. He will certainly expect little things from Sherlock, there is no doubt about that, but… “You gave me the one I wanted. I’m not going to ask for another.”

 

They don’t even try to go to two separate beds that evening. There is no debate, not even really a question. There is just a look and Sherlock casually mentioning, “My bed is bigger…” with an unreadable expression on his face.

*

The first few nights after that – and after the press conference – John eventually seeks out Sherlock’s chest and the steady heartbeat during the night, even if he falls asleep on his side of the bed. Neither comments on it.

*

One week after that, they are being called to Sherlock’s first _’post mortem’_ case at the Yard, as Lestrade now apparently feels secure enough to call it jokingly.

Sherlock rolls his eyes at that, and then realises that his glee at Anderson’s request for a transfer lasts precisely until he meets the new guy on forensics...

 

John doesn’t know if it’s the return to what constitutes as normalcy for them that wakes him that night when he turns towards the warmth that is his bed mate. He makes it as far as onto his side when his eyes open, and he finds Sherlock return his look, mirroring the position.

Sherlock rolls onto his back, his eyes wordlessly on John.

John follows and rests his head on Sherlock’s chest again. “Are we ever going to talk about this?” he asks, softly.

Sherlock arranges his arms around John until he feels comfortable. “What is there to talk about?”

John pauses for a second. Sherlock sounds serious. “Wh…” He props himself up on his elbow. Sherlock just looks at him curiously. “Sherlock… we… are sleeping in the same bed. I sleep with my head on your chest at least for half the night.” He thinks about saying how it would probably be for the best if they got over their fears and returned to the status quo from before. The words are there, formed at the tip of his tongue, but he can’t make himself say them.

Sherlock remains calm. He keeps one hand around John’s middle, while the other rests on his own stomach. “And why would that be a problem?”

“It’s not…” John is about to say, _’what ordinary people do,’_ but he has to stop that thought as well. Not because it hurts like the other one, but because he is pretty sure he couldn’t say it with a straight face.

Sherlock’s lips twitch in amusement. He can still read John like a book.

“Yeah, alright. You got me there,” John admits.

Sherlock huffs a laugh that lights up his whole face.

“Oh, fine!” John complains (with a big grin) and lays his head back on Sherlock’s chest, where they apparently both feel it belongs. “Shut up already.”

Sherlock runs a hand through John’s hair, twisting and twirling strands of hair, his thoughts taking similar twists and twirls. 

John finds it oddly soothing and is being lulled to sleep by the steady beat and the thoughtful fingers on his head.

“There is nothing ordinary,” Sherlock’s low voice says when John is almost asleep, “about the connection we share.” It is deliciously extraordinary. Too extraordinary to ever truly understand. He has never known another person like John Watson, and he doesn’t expect to. He has never understood sentiment, either, until he found himself at the cutting, raw edge of it. A raw edge of solitude that has never hurt him before – one that he has on the contrary sought out. 

John has… become a part of him. He doesn’t _function_ as well without him. Nobody else has ever managed to coax more efficiency out of his, frankly, remarkable mind. And nobody else’s absence has ever blindsided him with feelings.

While away and being confronted with the lack, Sherlock had soon decided to accept the sentiment in order to also have the efficiency, if he was offered another life with John. He has to silently admit to himself that he has found it easier to accept said sentiment than he had originally expected.

The silly notion of _’absence making the heart grow fonder’_ would almost ring true, if it wasn’t so terribly inadequate a description. _’Fondness’_ doesn’t even come close to the aching need and hunger for his friend’s presence. It is no longer merely a matter of Sherlock deciding that keeping John’s company is the rational thing to do, it is that he simply no longer _cares_ about the rationalisation. Like with his brain’s unquestioned and constant demand for stimulus, Sherlock _wants_ , and now that he has, he wants to keep.

His lips lift in a small smile at the deep sigh John is breathing on his chest. He very much intends to keep.

Sherlock’s words about their shared connection accompany John into his dreams. No. There is nothing ordinary. He has never known anyone as suiting, as complementing, as frustratingly brilliant as Sherlock. And he knows that he is suiting, complementing and frustratingly grounding to his friend in return.

If he lives to be a hundred, John knows that he will know no other person who can fill the natural gaps in his life as completely as Sherlock Holmes.

He is surprisingly okay with that.

*

It’s funny. John only remembers their first kiss when they’re in the middle of the second.

John once more regularly goes to bed before Sherlock, particularly when Sherlock is on a case, and this day was no different. He’s asleep when Sherlock joins him, but his body rolls towards the warmth, needing no conscious thought.

He opens his eyes to Sherlock lying on his side, studying him. “Solved it?” he asks. Sherlock wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t, after all, even if it was only a cold case.

Sherlock nods, smiling. “Turns out it was rather boring, actually. Accident with the brother. Brother panicked. Et cetera, et cetera.”

John nods. “Shame,” he mumbles and inches closer. He knows that he will end up half-lying on Sherlock anyway, but for the time being, he quite likes looking at the bright eyes winding down from the case.

Sherlock reaches out and runs a finger down John’s face.

John sighs, sleepily. That feels nice.

“Why are you awake?” Sherlock asks.

John huffs. “You woke me.”

“Apologies,” Sherlock whispers. Then, as if to seal the word, he closes the gap between them, presses his lips against John’s in a warm kiss and spreads his fingers to cup his cheek.

It occurs to John that he knows the feel of those lips, and it is only then that he remembers kissing Sherlock the day he came back. The feel of the lips isn’t the only thing he remembers, though. He remembers the emotions from when he finally got to hold his friend again, and he is almost surprised to notice that they haven’t changed or weakened over time. The desperation and fear are no longer at the forefront but have made way for a strong sense of belonging.

The kiss remains tame and warm, just their lips pressing, brushing and massaging, and it’s still the most intimate John has ever felt.

When it ends, they look into each other’s eyes for a long moment. It’s a comfortable moment, not a tense one, which would have been another surprise, had either of them thought about it.

John’s lips twitch. “I guess this is another thing that doesn’t warrant talking about, then?”

Sherlock grins a bit. “Would you rather I hadn’t done it?”

John rolls his eyes and leans in for another kiss. “Not what I meant.”

“Obviously.” Sherlock raises an eyebrow, making John snort. “Are you having a sexual identity crisis?”

John shrugs the shoulder he isn’t lying on. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.” He ponders that. “The thought hasn’t entered my mind, to be honest.”

Sherlock lowers his voice until it almost rumbles the whole bed. “Didn’t realise you were kissing a man, did you?”

John burst out laughing at that display and rests his forehead against Sherlock’s chest (that is shaking in silent laughter, too). “I did notice, thank you very much. But… you’re Sherlock.” He pushes back a bit to look at his friend again.

Sherlock tilts his head.

“Shouldn’t this be more of an issue for you?” John asks. “I mean… you’re not exactly ever interested in anyone.”

“In one way or another, I have been _interested_ in your company from the day we met,” Sherlock replies, matter-of-factly.

John has to give him that. “But… kissing? I would have expected your sexual orientation to tend towards the asexual.”

“There is a difference between asexual and aromantic, John,” Sherlock can’t help but correct. “You do have a point with sexuality being something that _tends towards_ one variation, however. I have never viewed it as something that is particularly fixed.” He shrugs. “And I have never had enough data to come to a definite conclusion as far as my own orientation is concerned. It may very well be that I tend towards asexual, or it may be that for obvious reasons I have… issues with close proximity to people, which would lead to the same result. Either way, it is entirely possible that you are the exception to both.”

John blinks. That is… a lot of information.

“Of course,” Sherlock continues, “I still lack most of the data to come to a conclusion.” His lip twitches. “About both our exceptions, for that matter.”

John snickers. “Well, I didn’t run from the bed screaming…” That should have scared him, too, come to think of it. It doesn’t. Still, John is sure that if he were to hold out his hand, it would be perfectly steady. The thought makes him smirk.

“You did not.”

John still grins, leans in for another kiss, and then pushes Sherlock onto his back to rest his head on his chest. “Good night, Sherlock.”

“Good night, John.” Sherlock feels entitled to run his hand through John’s hair, again, caressing them both to sleep.

*

It’s an enjoyable stage they’re at, now. They are settling back into life together, solving crime (while lying at least a little bit low) and sharing the same type of comfortable domesticity they’ve come to know _before_.

Except for the part where they still share a bed and a kiss every now and again. Perhaps it shouldn’t have fit so well into their schedule, but it did. It managed to install itself into their everyday lives, much like John making tea and Sherlock forgetting to buy milk.  
It doesn’t even particularly change their behaviour around each other. They still stand closer than the universally acknowledged definition of personal space demands, they still laugh at inappropriate jokes, and they still share a corner of understanding that nobody has ever been allowed to enter.

The kissing is indeed more like the shared laughter than anything else. More often than not, that is where it starts.

For someone who dislikes human contact as much as Sherlock, he is a quick study, and it doesn’t take him long to figure out the type of kissing that feels like a cleansing breath of air rushing through his overactive mind and that gets John to forget everything around him. (Sherlock does like to have all of John’s attention to himself.)  
While before he always believed the more involving kisses to be unnecessarily invasive, he now happily catalogues taste and texture in a way that only a curious tongue can. He also never quite understood how people could insist that physical contact strengthens a bond between people. After all, it was a conscious decision to seek the company of someone; physical contact didn’t need to be part of that equation... He now understands that altered brain chemicals _do_ affect him and make him seek more of the same. Natural addictives.

Sherlock expects John (or, rather, his body) to eventually want more than kissing, and he isn’t entirely disinclined to oblige. He doesn’t expect the same to happen to him, however.

*

Sherlock is neither blind nor immune to his body’s reactions. He enjoys the kissing almost as much as the fact that it is something shared with John. But when the kissing inevitably becomes more heated one evening on the couch, he still finds it almost overwhelming.

He likes John’s little moans. To him, they indicate that John’s mind is with him alone. Then the moans start sounding more desperate, the breathing speeds up more than usual, and Sherlock helplessly gravitates towards more of the same. His body turns to the side, and his hands pull John closer. It’s only when the movement causes his trousers to stretch over his crotch, that a loud moan escapes his throat and startles him into breaking the kiss and leaning his forehead against John’s shoulder, breathing heavily.

John releases a shuddering breath and runs a calming hand through Sherlock’s hair. “Sorry,” he gasps out and swallows. “I was getting carried away.”

Sherlock shakes his head but doesn’t lift it. He opens his eyes and from his position can clearly see that he isn’t the only one affected. This is hardly the first time he notices it in either himself or John; it is the first time that he feels like maybe he wants to do more than notice it, though.

John kisses the top of Sherlock’s head. “Are you alright?”

Sherlock lifts his head, cups John’s jaw with one hand and leans in for a soft, short kiss. “Yes.” His thumb draws small circles below John’s ear. “I did expect things to... progress at some point.”

“Sherlock...” John averts his eyes and sighs, then returns to look at him. “It doesn’t have to progress any further. I’m perfectly happy with your company as it is.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and sends a pointed look towards John’s crotch.

John clears his throat. “Yes, well. I’m a big boy, I can handle it.”

This makes Sherlock smirk, and he takes gleeful delight in the childishness of his reaction.

John rolls his eyes. “Oh, for God’s sake!” he complains and leans in for another kiss, stopping the chuckle erupting from Sherlock’s throat.  
Eventually, the kiss ends, again. “Seriously, Sherlock. We don’t have to do anything else. I’m not a horny teenager. I am fine with whatever you can give me.”

John’s caution annoys Sherlock, though he is not entirely sure why. “You don’t believe in all this _virgin_ rubbish, do you?” He goes with the first thought that comes to mind.

John looks entirely too unconvinced. “I don’t give a damn about that,” he states, calmly. “Why would that even matter? None of my exes in any way come into this... us.” He holds Sherlock’s eyes with his. “I don’t care about the past, I care about you and me and what this is and where it’s going.”

“So it is going somewhere,” Sherlock adds, still sounding slightly piqued.

“Things always do, Sherlock. My point is... _You_ are important to me.” He helplessly looks for something to add and eventually has to give up with a smile. “That’s it. Whatever it is between us, we will define it together, and I’m not going to drag you into something you don’t want.”

Sherlock marginally tilts his head. Now he’s the one who’s unconvinced. “So this has nothing to do with you coming to realise that it’s a man you’re defining things with.”

“No,” John replies firmly. “It has everything to do with the fact that it’s _you_ I’m defining things with.”

Sherlock appears puzzled. He has assumed that John’s sexual history would cause the man to define things differently. It now appears as if – no matter how different they may be – in this one very important matter, they coincide perfectly.

“I love you,” John adds. “You must know that, don’t you?”

Sherlock draws in a sharp breath. “I do know that.” His face softens. “Of course I do.”

“This is what matters. You and me, and knowing that we belong.” He peeks downwards. “Not this.” He smirks a bit and is relieved when Sherlock reciprocates. “I won’t deny that I’m enjoying it, and that my body has very specific ideas of what to do about that, but...” He sighs. “You come first.” He shakes his head, ruefully. “You always do, you bastard.”

Sherlock grins, then sobers. “I...” He clears his throat. “I do enjoy the arousal, but... it’s a bit of an afterthought...” He is trailing off, trying to find a delicate way to say that exploring John is definitely at the forefront, whether or not the arousal is.

“I think I understand,” John says. It’s a bit of a first for him. He used to hold a much higher regard for the act of sex. More often than not, the regard for the sex was higher than the regard for the person. He never thought so at the time, but Sherlock would be able to point out each and every instance where John thought the wrong name, used an endearment because the right name wouldn’t come, or just generally made a mess of his girlfriends.  
John does still blame himself for that. He can’t find fault, though. How could he be expected to find another person to outshine everyone in the way Sherlock does? Everyone pales in comparison, and more importantly, the connections he has known with other people pale to the one he has always had with Sherlock.

Sherlock returns the look and thinks that maybe John actually does understand. He also thinks that John will not be the one to progress things further, as if a lived heterosexual history somehow weighs less than a lived asexual one. Other heterosexual males would certainly argue that point, but John seems to be the exception, as per usual. Sherlock loves him terribly for it.

Their arousal has subsided somewhat, and postponing the decision seems at least an option. For some reason, Sherlock doesn’t favour that option. He leans in for another kiss, allowing enough passion to weave into it to make his intentions clear, before he pushes John backwards to settle over him.

John accepts the kiss – of course he does; where Sherlock leads, John follows – and wraps his arms tightly around Sherlock’s back when he is being shifted to lie down. Sherlock’s heartbeat thunders against John’s chest where his own counters the beat in kind.

Neither of them holds back anymore, and they allow the arousal to fall into place next to kisses, laughter, breakfast tea and solving crime.

They grin into the kiss, enjoying the familiarity of the new, and John feels entitled to run one hand lower and grab a handful.

Sherlock chuckles into the kiss and lifts his head to look at John.

“Not bad,” John remarks.

Sherlock rolls his hips down, making them both bite back a moan. “Not bad yourself.”

John smirks. Still. “Alright?” he has to ask.

Sherlock nods. “Perfectly.” He cheekily grins and licks over John’s lips.

John grins right back and pulls Sherlock into a kiss with the hand that is currently not busy keeping a hold of that arse.

Eventually, Sherlock lifts his hips enough to allow both of them to get to each other’s belts and zippers and push trousers and pants maybe halfway down the thighs, all of that with some struggling but mostly without breaking the kiss.

John feels like there should be more of a... barrier of sorts. One that tells him that it’s kind of a big deal to shove your hand down another man’s trolleys for the first time, but the barrier stubbornly refuses to materialise. On the contrary. The silky hardness feels as if it was made for his palm and fingers, and the sounds Sherlock is making were _definitely_ made for his ears.

Sherlock shivers from head to toe and moves a bit to the side to ease John’s access. “Shouldn’t we head for the bedroom?” he makes himself ask, anyway, using his own hand to reciprocate.

John pants against Sherlock’s lips, briefly kisses him and catalogues every expression on the otherworldly face. He doesn’t want to leave. He doesn’t want to be anywhere but here and now.  
“Later. I don’t want to move.”

Sherlock accepts that; he doesn’t really want to move, either. Well, apart from the obvious. He leans down for a kiss and lets himself drown in it.

After a few minutes of kissing and a growing frustration about the immobility of their hands in that position, John takes a hold of Sherlock and moves them to their sides, careful not to fall off the couch.

The new position and particularly the eased access of John’s hand on his dick startles a moan out of Sherlock, and his shivering turns into trembling. His own hand falls off John, and though he tries to return it, he eventually has to give up and just clings to the warm body.  
“I’m s-,” Sherlock chokes on the last word and John kisses him.

“Shh. It’s okay. I’ve got you.” John can’t stop looking at Sherlock. The other man’s eyes are wild and wide open; his pupils force the iris to the margin, making them into two blue rings of fire. He looks like a water spirit with his mesmerising eyes and glistening skin, full of so much magic to give and not knowing how to give it without burning himself to ashes.  
John can honestly say that he has never seen anything this captivating. And it’s for him. Just for him.  
Sherlock’s indignation at being called a virgin probably means that he has been with someone, but John has absolutely no doubt at all that whoever that person (people?) was, they were not given half of what John is offered now.

“John,” Sherlock whimpers, and that sound makes something inside John jump sideways.

“I’m here.” His voice is breathy, hoarse and trembling. “Sherlock, I’ve got you, I love you, just let go, I’m right here with you, beautiful, you’re so beautiful.” John doesn’t know what he’s saying, only that he begins to sound more and more like he’s sobbing than anything else.

Sherlock’s body lurches forward, his head thrown back, his whole body going violently rigid, the rabbit in his chest running a mile a minute, and there is not enough air and too much love and probably declarations and...  
When Sherlock opens his eyes, his head is giving every attempt to swim back to the surface, but he has a feeling that it might be a while before it gets there. John is there, instead, though, so that is okay. John is smiling, and Sherlock is sure he has started to smile back before he is even aware of it.

“Hello,” John says, laughs lovingly and kisses Sherlock softly. “Welcome back.” The humour crinkles around his eyes, making Sherlock breathe out a laugh of his own.

“Is this... normal?” He’s not sure what he is referring to. Well, the feeling, obviously. But there are chemicals – he can even list them – physical reactions, relaxation, elation... How is it possible for him to feel the chemicals flooding his system and immediately recognise them as what people call _’love’_? He has nothing to compare it to. Yet he knows it.

“I should hope so, yes,” John answers. He leans in for another kiss. “Don’t expect it to be this overwhelming every time, though.” He smiles, clearly amused.

Something occurs to Sherlock and he looks down... only to see that John is as spent as he is.

John clears his throat. “I may have come against your leg.” Sherlock snorts. “Very undignified.”

Now Sherlock laughs out loud and pulls John closer.

“There is one problem, though,” John mumbles into the shoulder he is pressed against.

Sherlock pushes him back a bit to see his face. The tone in John’s voice is in no way worrying, so he is merely curious.

John sighs. “I still don’t want to move.”

They both burst into giggles at the same time and just collapse against each other.

Eventually, Sherlock clears his throat. “We should move at some point, though. Mrs Hudson is bound to walk in on us at an inopportune moment. That woman has no sense of personal boundaries.”

John just snorts. “No wonder you like her.”

Sherlock bites John’s shoulder in retaliation, making John giggle again.

There is more necking and kissing – even _tickling_ , for God’s sake! – but they do manage to make their escape to the bedroom before Mrs Hudson (or certain relatives with similar concepts of privacy that shall remain unnamed) has the chance to walk in despite of the late hour.

As it happens, she doesn’t. Not that day. Or the next. All bets are off for the day after that, though...

 

_TBC_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was my attempt at creating a sexual relationship that doesn't focus on the sexual aspect... How did I do? ^-^'
> 
> Also, if there is something about their relationship at this point that you would like to have covered, drop a note :) I can't promise I'll be able to work with it, but it might lead somewhere anyway :)


	5. Unfailing

After one particular incident involving the couch and too little clothes, Mrs Hudson knows better than to enter her boys’ flat without knocking when the doors are closed. However, that is only because Mrs Hudson possesses a modicum of propriety where it concerns Sherlock and John that Mycroft Holmes (just to name one example) entirely lacks.

So when John wakes – Sherlock curled around his right side with his head on John’s chest – because there is the sound of someone entering the bedroom behind the kitchen, John is pretty sure that it’s not Mrs Hudson. She is known to catch a glimpse every now and again (nothing too explicit – she is a romantic at heart, after all, and her boys aren’t all that _explicit_ most of the time, anyway), but she definitely wouldn’t go as far as enter their bedroom. John also knows that steps on the stairs would register with Sherlock even while asleep, and the fact that Sherlock doesn’t so much as move a muscle can only mean that whoever has just walked in is not a threat.

The two sharp knocks on the doorframe (of the kind that would be created by wood on wood) make him sigh deeply. A similar, softer knock on the floor follows a second later. Mycroft’s umbrella.

Sherlock doesn’t move. “Piss off, Mycroft.”

It occurs to John that they haven’t seen Mycroft since he brought Sherlock’s papers a couple of days after his return, and even though the brothers still don’t behave very brotherly towards each other, John also remembers the look of pride and relief flickering briefly over Mycroft’s face that day.  
He blinks his eyes open. This look on Mycroft’s face is something else.

“Sherlock,” is all Mycroft says, but it is enough.

Sherlock rolls off John, ignoring completely that they are both naked and the movement is pulling the sheet that is covering them even further down their bodies, and props himself up on his elbows. He takes one short look at his brother.  
“She is stable?” he asks.

“Yes.” Mycroft smiles the smile that is reserved for Sherlock for when he thinks his little brother isn’t behaving in the manner that the situation would warrant. “And improving.”

John pushes himself into a sitting position. There is really only one person the two could be talking about. The marginal relaxing of Sherlock’s muscles is just visible enough to confirm that suspicion.

Mycroft continues. “But she asked to see you.” His eyes flicker to John. “And John.”

Sherlock’s relaxation makes way for vague annoyance. He releases a breath.

“You cannot evade her calls forever, Sherlock.”

Sherlock frowns at his blanket. “Is she even ill?” he finally asks and misses Mycroft’s brief flash of disappointment. John doesn’t miss it.

“Her doctors don’t expect her to survive another attack like this one,” Mycroft says and he visibly takes satisfaction from Sherlock’s expression as his head snaps around to return the calculating look. He sighs. “Would you just… for once in your life…”

Sherlock breaks the eye contact and eventually nods, uncomfortably.

John has watched the exchange silently, and now something of an accord appears to have been found. He clears his throat and reaches for his bathrobe that lies on the floor next to the bed. It’s one thing for him to be naked in Sherlock’s presence; his brother is a different matter entirely. The nakedness has sneaked into their lives like everything else, and after the first sexual contact, there was little need for modesty in their own bed (usually, anyway). There is a somewhat regular sex life between them, now, though most people would probably find it peculiar. More often than not, it results in John gaining release and Sherlock enjoying it by proxy and with kisses, his bodily needs not nearly as urgent. Mouths have joined the hands in pleasuring the partner eventually, and they both know that other things might become a topic at some point, since Sherlock has dropped a vague hint once during their love-making, and John’s reaction has been apprehensive but potentially favourable.

John wraps himself in his robe quickly and walks around the bed to Sherlock’s side, pausing briefly. “I’ll just hop in the shower and then prepare tea.” He keeps his eyes on Sherlock and waits for the other man to look up and confirm. When he does, he lays a calm hand on Sherlock’s shoulder for a moment and smiles. He straightens and disappears into the bathroom.

The brothers remain silent and unmoving until they hear the sound of the running water.

“I suppose you’re pleased with yourself,” Sherlock finally grouches, and he doesn’t need to clarify what he is talking about (and that it isn’t their mother).

Mycroft almost bristles where he stands, but catches himself before it becomes too visible. “If you are referring to your current state of undress and the proximity to John, I can say that it is both a surprising and a very unsurprising thing to see.”

Sherlock blinks and directs unexpectedly wide eyes at the man standing.

Mycroft sighs. “Sherlock… since you met him, it has always been either him or no one.” He studies his brother for a long moment. “I admit I was not sure if that would be enough.”

Sherlock scoffs and stares at his blanket again. “How tedious. As if sex is the be all and end all of a human being.”

“It is not,” Mycroft shoots back immediately. “And that was hardly what I was referring to.” He allows a tiny smirk. “Though it does not appear to have affected you negatively.”

Sherlock turns his head to scowl at him. The blanket is incredibly ineffective for that, unfortunately. “I thought caring wasn’t an advantage,” he spits, and his tone makes clear that he isn’t merely speaking of himself, but also of Mycroft. Sherlock hasn’t missed the fond look directed at both John and him on several occasions. The veiled approval he is on the receiving end of now only confirms that his brother… for all his failings and shortcomings… doesn’t just worry. He cares.

Mycroft shifts and intently studies the spot where the tip of his umbrella twirls on the floor. “I believe John has successfully proven that it isn’t necessarily a disadvantage, either.” He looks up from a downturned face and holds Sherlock’s eyes with his for a second. Then the moment is over, he straightens and turns to leave. “There will be a car to pick you and John up in one hour. Do resist the temptation of making a scene.” He adds the last part only just before he closes the door.

Sherlock merely rolls his eyes and flops back onto the bed.

When he feels lips on his, he realises that he had closed his eyes and let his mind wander. He returns the soft kiss before opening his eyes again.

“Alright?” John asks, sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand gently rubbing Sherlock’s arm.

Sherlock nods and sits. “Of course. You heard Mycroft. Mother is fine, though she does love to be dramatic.”

John’s lips twitch as he is transported back to the beginning of what was to be the best thing that ever happened to him. “Family trait, I guess,” he says and snickers at Sherlock’s indignation. He stands. “Get ready then. I want to know where the two of you get it from.”

Sherlock can’t help but huff a laugh. “Be careful what you wish for.”

*

Sherlock indeed does resist the temptation of making a scene; he instead adopts an expression of icy disdain that conveys to everyone who dares to look at him that he is suffering their presence on the planet out of the sheer goodness of his heart.

John sits with him in the back of the sleek, black car and at first only watches the streets and buildings go by. Eventually, he can’t help asking anymore. “What does it mean that your mother wants to see me?”

Sherlock sighs and picks at an invisible threat on his impeccable trousers. “Mother has dragged me to more psychologists than I can count when I was a child, trying desperately to find one that would not use any... unfavourable terms to describe my mental state.” He huffs. “Mycroft of course has learned at an early age that concealing the emotional distance will make people like that back off. I never found it in myself to even care.” He turns to look at John. “Mother always insisted that one day someone would prove them all wrong. I guess you’re the one she was waiting for.”

John clears his throat. “So... she knows, then.” He isn’t sure how to put it. It all seems inadequate. Sherlock is his friend. His dearest friend. Despite the most recent changes, that is still how he thinks of the man. He also knows that this isn’t the word that most people would use. Most people would call them a _couple_. Then again, _most people_ have used that term since long before there were any couple-y aspects in their relationship, aside from the cohabitation, the working together, the dinners, the inside jokes, the... Oh, who is he kidding? _Most people_ have been right from the beginning.

“I would expect so,” Sherlock says. “She has expressed the wish to meet you for a long time, but I’m afraid the more recent developments will have rendered her somewhat... emotional.”

John isn’t sure he wants to know what _’emotional’_ means for a Holmes family member. He is familiar with Sherlock’s emotions well enough – even Mycroft’s, such as they are – but their mother...? He really isn’t sure what to expect.

 

The first impression he gets when they enter the private hospital room is that of any other woman of her age. She maybe appears a bit more frail than most, but then again, she _is_ Sherlock’s mother, and he’s sure the impression is deceiving.

Mycroft wordlessly moves from her bedside as Sherlock steps up to the bed, kisses her cheek and even allows her to cup his face and study him for a moment.

John feels like he is standing at attention with a polite, warm smile and waits to be introduced. Even while lying in a hospital bed with an IV in her arm and the wires of a cardiograph protruding from her chest, the woman oozes elegance and dignity. John finds that he cannot escape it.

After having indulged his mother, Sherlock straightens and turns to look at John, who picks up the cue and steps forward.  
“Mother, I would like you to meet Doctor John Watson.” His mother gracefully lets slide that Sherlock hasn’t shown a particular interest in introducing John to her, prior to this moment.

John reaches for her offered hand and without thinking cups their handshake with his left hand as well. His smile widens as he looks into familiarly piercing eyes. “Mrs Holmes. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

She smiles at him and immediately turns to look at Sherlock (without letting go of John’s hand, though). “Sherlock,” she says in a reprimanding tone. “He is absolutely lovely! For the life of me I cannot fathom why it would take you so long to have me meet your young man.”

“My _young man_ is a war hero and doctor,” Sherlock protests, his eyes trying not to dart towards where Mycroft is standing and no doubt smirking, the bastard. “And he is also several years older than I am.” 

She leans towards John a bit. “Always so sensitive, my Sherlock.”

John grins. “And the best man I know,” he adds, looking into her eyes. Because it’s always a good idea to compliment children in front of their parents, because it’s a gentle way to steer the conversation towards waters that annoy Sherlock less, but mostly because it’s true. It also probably bears repeating to certain people; especially, if the snippets of Sherlock’s childhood he has been told about in the car have hurt his mother as much as John suspects. Her brilliant son is a bloody annoying handful, but capable of so much good and bad that only makes it more amazing that he has ultimately chosen the good.  
His assessment of Mrs Holmes’ state of mind proves to be correct, as her reaction is to beam at him with teary eyes.

“Absolutely lovely,” she repeats, nodding firmly at Sherlock.

Sherlock himself relaxes visibly and even smiles a bit in return. He should have known that John would know how to deal with family obligations.

*

Sherlock is considerably less affectionate that evening than usual. 

Admittedly, affection is perhaps a questionable description for what Sherlock usually displays. Between cases, it takes some effort on John’s part to direct Sherlock’s restlessness elsewhere, but once he manages it, it’s the tactile sensations that keep his mind occupied. During cases, there is – surprisingly – more affectionate behaviour on Sherlock’s part, though he is hardly ever consciously aware of it. He might pet John absentmindedly like a cat for hours while his brain is working, only to suddenly jump up and run off to whatever it is he’s figured out. Or he might grab John and use him as a pillow to drown out alien noises and thoughts, again, for hours, if John lets him. (Thankfully, for most of those scenarios, John can at least still use his laptop or watch telly.)  
And then there are those rare moments where Sherlock consciously seeks the closeness. (Laptop and telly are not an option in such moments.)

Tonight, he is quiet, and his eyes drift away into space more often than not.

At first, John just thinks that maybe Sherlock is tired, but he soon comes to the conclusion that the man has probably merely more than reached his quota of sentiment he can deal with per day.

When John feels his eyes fall close and his head loll onto the back of the couch, he puts a calm hand on Sherlock’s shoulder to get his attention. “You alright?”

Sherlock nods absently.

John tries a shot in the dark. “I think it’s a good thing that she got to meet me,” he says.

Sherlock’s eyes clear up, and he looks up. “Seeing proof of my... capability of having emotions?”

John smiles crookedly. “Something like that.”

“Parental sentiment,” Sherlock murmurs and shrugs.

“Yes.”

Sherlock remains quiet for a long time, and John thinks it’s probably a good idea to stay around for that. “I think... I understand.”

John smiles. “I know you do,” he says, as if it’s not extraordinary at all. It explains why Sherlock has been... mentally masticating all evening.

Sherlock blinks at him.

John stands and kisses the top of his head. “Don’t stay up all night.”

Sherlock doesn’t smile, but it appears as if maybe there’s room for a little more sentiment that day, after all.

He doesn’t stay up all night, but it takes him several more hours before his restless mind is in need of rest in spite of itself.

John’s sleeping form is welcoming and calming and he falls asleep within minutes.

*

When John wakes up the following morning, Sherlock is already lying awake and studying him. He smiles lazily. “Good morning.”

“Why do you keep believing in my emotional capability despite your better judgement?”

John blinks. He’s not sure he’s awake enough for the third degree already. “Who says it’s despite my better judgement?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “You can ask anyone who...”

“Who has lived and worked with you for as long as I have and enjoys it?”

“Your enjoyment might cloud your judgement.”

John rubs his face. “No. _Both_ our enjoyment merely means that you let me see more of you than anyone else.” He sighs and his expression softens. “Sherlock... we both know you’re not exactly a social butterfly. You don’t like to deal with people, you don’t like them to disturb your headspace, and most of the time you don’t even notice they’re anything other than data points. We all know that.” He keeps his eyes firmly on Sherlock. “But I have seen you with Mrs Hudson, with your mother, Greg, even Molly or, God forbid, your brother. Just because you don’t know what to do with the love you’re feeling that doesn’t mean that it’s not there, does it?”

Sherlock thinks it over. “What makes you different? How could you see when even I couldn’t?”

John grins cheerfully. “I have no idea.”

The answer startles a chuckle out of Sherlock, but the smile fades soon. “I have disappointed her many times,” he says quietly.

John just smiles. “She wasn’t disappointed, yesterday.”

“No, she wasn’t. Thank you.”

“I never thought I’d say that, because your ego definitely doesn’t need it, but... don’t sell yourself short.”

Sherlock tries to hold back another laugh that eventually forces its way out, anyway.

John grins. “You’re an idiot.”

Sherlock half shrugs as if to convey that on emotional territory he wouldn’t dream of arguing the point.

“You’re an idiot for thinking that your emotions are worth less than someone else’s,” John continues, turning serious. “Your feelings are as crystal clear as your mind. The clarity with which you focus on a case is amazing, but just as amazingly clear are the feelings when you focus on me. It’s quite flattering actually.” He smirks benignly.

Sherlock blinks at him, wide-eyed.

“And...” John clears his throat and averts his eyes. “It’s addictive. I know that... nothing else could ever do. Not after you. And that...” He purses his lips for a moment. “That’s fucking scary, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Sherlock stares for a long time. “Nobody but you could ever do.”

The corner of John’s mouth lifts. “Told you it was flattering.” He reaches for Sherlock’s right hand and clasps it between their chests. “Do not... _ever_... leave me behind like that again,” he says, his voice firm and demanding. It takes a second, but when he realises that he hasn’t ever actually asked for this earlier, he can’t quite believe it.

Sherlock fidgets. “I can’t promise to stay alive...”

“Not what I meant,” John interrupts. “I doubt that your trick would work twice, but if something similar becomes necessary, again, you _will_ let me know. Do you understand? Fuck the risk.”

Sherlock smiles weakly and nods. “I understand.”

John nods, satisfied and pushes himself upright. “We’ll better get going, then...”

Sherlock takes a hold of John’s hand when he tries to get out of bed, and John turns to look at him in askance.

Sherlock pulls John closer and into a kiss, sighing almost in relief when John follows his request. He keeps up the kissing for a while, then gradually manoeuvres John to lie between his legs, purposefully, making his intention clear.

John breaks the kiss. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock appears uncertain but determined. “I want to give you this.”

John blinks, then frowns. “Sherlock... I... You’re not a sacrificial lamb, and I’m not... going to let you lie there and think of England while I...” He really doesn’t know how to put it. He has thought of this, of course he has, but...

Sherlock looks puzzled. “Being with you isn’t a chore, John.” John draws in a breath to reply, but Sherlock stops him with his fingers over his lips. “I don’t always react the way you would expect a body to react, that doesn’t mean that I gain no pleasure from what we’re doing.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Watching what your body is doing to you and experiencing what mine is doing to me is _very_ pleasurable. You must know that, you’ve seen me react, after all.”

John has to smirk. “You treat sex like it’s a case,” he states.

Sherlock shrugs. “You treat it like it’s no more than an extension of us, which isn’t entirely incorrect, but I’m sure _normal_ people would disagree.”

“I just... I don’t want to do something you don’t want.”

“Have you known me to ask for something I didn’t want?”

John grins. “Hell, no.”

Sherlock shifts his hips. “Now, would you mind terribly fucking me?”

John snorted, amused. The erection that had only just started to make itself known during the kissing has diminished again, and he isn’t at all sure if Sherlock’s peculiar brand of prep talk works on him.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and just pulls John into another kiss. Talking is all good and well – and he does do it well – but right now, he needs and wants something physical and connecting, something... grounding. He doesn’t know if his sex drive (such as it is) will take a liking to this kind of thing, or if it will remain on the analytical side. As far as he is concerned, it doesn’t matter. He’s sharing it with John, after all, and it is satisfying either way.  
He smiles smugly into the kiss when he can feel John’s body reacting.

John breaks the kiss but only lifts his head enough to speak. “You’re awfully pleased with yourself, aren’t you?”

“I don’t hear you complaining.” He leans up for another small kiss and turns serious. “I know we haven’t discussed this, and if it truly is something you don’t want to do, I’m not going to make you.”  
John may have made an exception for Sherlock in his sexual identity, but it might very well be that this is a boundary he is not willing to cross.

John considers the question, then smirks, despite the questions still buzzing in his mind. He leans in closer to Sherlock’s ear and growls, “Make me, Sherlock? We both know you couldn’t take me in a fight.” Sherlock’s low chuckle goes straight to his dick, and to his own surprise, so does his own display of alpha-male. That might... perhaps be useful to remember for another time.

Sherlock of course notices both. “Pulling rank, captain?”

John’s grin grows. “Got something useful in this room?”

Of course he does. Sherlock nods his head towards the bedside table. “Naturally, doctor.”

John presses a kiss to Sherlock’s lips and rolls off him to get to the drawer. “Roleplaying now?”

“I don’t have to roleplay; you are both my doctor and my captain.” Sherlock stretches and finally puts his hands under his head and nonchalantly crosses his legs at the ankles.

John gets the condoms and lube that he really should have expected in the first place. They’ve probably been there for a long time. “I already know that you don’t listen to my doctorly advice; maybe I should try giving you orders more often.” He turns to look at Sherlock who is still stretched out on the bed and pauses for a second, just looking.

“Yes?” Sherlock says, looking both amused and pleased.

“Your completely unselfconscious self is a sight to behold.”

Sherlock’s expression softens. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had something left to hide from you.” Then he smirks. “Well. The things you can process, anyway.”

John snorts and gestures towards Sherlock’s crossed legs with the hand holding the paraphernalia. “Go on, then. Let’s see if I can find something _you_ might have a problem processing.” He raises an eyebrow when Sherlock doesn’t react immediately. “That’s an order, detective.”

They both keep a straight face for a second and then burst out laughing.

John puts the bottle and packet on the mattress and crawls over Sherlock’s shaking body again. “Sorry. I just have to...” He sinks into a kiss, and Sherlock parts his legs without having to be ordered to again.

When the kiss ends, and John reaches for the bottle. “Ready?” he asks, moving to kneel between Sherlock’s legs.

“Always, doctor.” The tone is teasing, the look is trusting and open. No, more than open. Curious. Anticipating.

John considers getting right down to business, but as he warms the oily lube between his hands, the label on the bottle informing him that it may be used for erotic massage changes his mind. He starts with the thighs and massages firmly but slowly up and down, brushes by the interested but not yet overtly enthusiastic dick, up over the pubic hair and the stomach. He focuses on touch, experience... experimentation. This has... much more intention than their usual encounters. Those tend to just happen; they go where they go, and it’s all fine.  
This... is different. John isn’t quite sure yet what to make of it, but he certainly likes how Sherlock relaxes under his touch, no doubt categorising every brush and angle.

Sherlock feels much like during their first kisses. They’re close, he and John, so very close, and the touches are curious, sending a low, warm buzz through his body. He knows, just like during the early kisses, that the buzz might become more, or it might not, and it’s all fine.

Eventually, John can’t delay the inevitable anymore. He isn’t quite sure what to expect. Oh, he knows that he wants to try this, but it’s still something new. Something that for most people includes a certain barrier that needs crossing.  
He crosses the first barrier and uses a finger to breach his... well, under the circumstances it is probably prudent to refer to the man as his lover. Despite the deep sigh, the open thighs and the consciously relaxing muscles, Sherlock still doesn’t feel like his lover. He feels like... Sherlock. It’s supposed to be enough, except that John likes to know where he stands with people. Usually, anyway. Maybe, though, just maybe… in this case, it’s enough that he knows that he will stay.

He uses a second finger and then raises his eyes to look at Sherlock’s face. The lips are slightly parted, and the eyes are closed, but John can clearly see that they are very busy behind the closed lids, most likely analysing and filing information. A low hum escapes Sherlock’s throat, and John begins to think that this might turn out to be his thing after all. His trepidation is definitely on the decline.

Sherlock’s dick is only half-hard, but Sherlock had been right earlier, John knows what this looks like, and it’s the way Sherlock enjoys arousal without it overwhelming his mind. And yet… the doctor in John insists that it would ease their encounter were he to stimulate the penis in addition to the prostate, should Sherlock be even susceptible to the latter. Not everyone is and not to the same extent, after all. John tries to recall what he knows about erotic prostate massage while carefully angling his fingers to gently find it at the same time...

... And then the explosive groan that shoots from Sherlock’s mouth sends all doctorly thoughts out the window. John’s eyes fly to Sherlock’s face again, and this time, the chest is heaving and the eyes are blown wide open.

John feels himself responding. At first, he only notices that his own breathing is speeding up, but when he brushes past the prostate again, the dick in his hand fills and hardens and doesn’t seem like it needs any more additional attention at all. And Sherlock’s dick isn’t the only one that is suddenly very interested in the proceedings.  
“Oh, God,” John whispers.

Sherlock blindly grabs at the sheets, trying to find something to hold onto. John needs no conscious thought to reach for one hand with his second and clasp it tightly.

“John...” Sherlock says, his eyes once more closed and his voice sounding just as blind. His rational mind can no longer see and asks for the only thing that still makes sense. “John.”

John moves his fingers in and out, leans forward to kiss the stomach, pelvis bone, thighs and hardened flesh. He adds a third finger and finds no resistance at all. The hand he is holding trembles, as do the thighs and gradually the rest of the body under his.

Sherlock pulls at the hand in his and at the bedspread, the movements uncoordinated. “John!” he demands in an imperious tone usually reserved for asking John to follow him on a chase, aside from the distinct shakiness. And perhaps that is what he is asking for, now, too.

John can’t bring himself to let go of the hand, so he removes his fingers which earns him a whimper, and then he unwraps and rolls on a condom one-handed.  
He moves to cover Sherlock along the entire length of his body and looks into his sweaty and dazed face. “Ready?” He frowns at the position and peeks down. “Do you need... a pillow or something?”

Sherlock chuckles, enough parts of his brain having returned for him to actually form a coherent sentence. “I believe that won’t be necessary.” He shifts and lifts one leg to go around John’s back, while the other goes right over his shoulder, practically bending him in half.

Despite everything, John can feel a touch of nerves as he positions himself. He’s aroused beyond reason, he knows that he wants it, and he knows that it’s _right_ , but decades of thinking a certain way are hard to ignore. He doesn’t let it control him or make him hesitate, even. The rightness feels more right with every inch, and corny as it may be, he no longer has to question that Sherlock is his perfect other half.

Once Sherlock can feel John seated completely inside him, he takes a shuddering breath and opens his eyes to look into dark blue ones. “Alright?”

John’s answering chuckle sounds maybe a tad hysterical. “Shouldn’t that be my line?” he rasps.

Sherlock just smiles and, for once, doesn’t point out what is so obvious to him.

John understands him anyway. He should have known that his reservations wouldn’t go unnoticed. He leans in for a kiss, and the movement inadvertently shifts him inside Sherlock, making them both groan.

“Go on,” Sherlock mumbles against his lips, and John complies.

John finds his mind wandering. It shouldn’t feel so different from when he’s done this with women, but somehow, it leaves him befuddled as well as curious. He wonders if that is because Sherlock is Sherlock or because he’s a man.  
“What does it feel like?” he breathes out, unable to keep the question back. It’s funny. That question has never before entered his mind with anyone else. (This might actually be because Sherlock is a man, and he can’t help but wonder...)

“Full and... igniting, as if you can touch every nerve from the inside out...” is Sherlock’s scattered answer. 

John imagines it, imagines what it would be like to feel someone so close and intimately, and it sends a rush through him. Curiosity, fascination... and the incredible truth that Sherlock would even allow feeling it.

“And... surprising...” Sherlock continues to say whichever word comes to mind, first. “Surprising how I can find any kind of contact pleasurable... much less this kind... just because it’s you.”

A sob snaps John’s chest and he leans down for a kiss. His thrusts are somewhat limited from that angle, but he can’t seem to stop.

Sherlock runs a hand through John’s damp hair. “Or perhaps not surprising at all.”

John laughs. Yes. Sherlock can probably read him like an open book and might or might not formulate his answers according to what he sees, but... since Sherlock is someone who truly does dislike touch in general, John is inclined to believe him.  
He can see a drop of sweat drip from his forehead and onto Sherlock’s cheek and brushes it off. “Let’s do this right, then, shall we?” 

Sherlock’s answering cheeky grin really only deserves one answer. John moves more upright and hunches to get a better angle and then moves Sherlock’s second leg over his shoulder too. He uses his hands to rub and massage the thighs, over arse and stomach, up to the chest and nipples and then back again. He doesn’t want to brag, but he does know what he’s doing, here, after all. And seeing how Sherlock’s expression shows how he is happily cataloguing the plethora of sensations, his efforts appear to be well received.

Sherlock’s dick very much looks like it is interested in release and not just in humming arousal as it sometimes is, so John reaches for it and pumps it with the long, even strokes he knows Sherlock likes, and Sherlock arches into his touch, undulating his whole body with abandon and no restraint or calculation.

New things being as inveigling to Sherlock as they are, it doesn’t take long for him to be pulled under, and when he comes undone and spills onto his stomach, John catches himself thinking that it would be a marvellous thing for them to just merge into one person, even if it meant getting lost in Sherlock’s mind palace, and he follows him (where Sherlock leads, John follows) after a few more sharp, deep thrusts, all thoughts gone.

The thoughts eventually – and gradually – return together with somewhat more regular breathing and heartbeat, and John carefully pulls out of Sherlock and props himself up on his arm to kiss him. “Be right back. Don’t move,” he murmurs and heads for the bathroom.

“You say that as if I were even inclined to do so...” Sherlock’s voice follows him.

John returns moderately cleaned up and holding a washcloth to do the same for Sherlock. He carelessly throws the cloth onto the floor (it will still be there later) and lies back down, his head pillowed on Sherlock’s chest, extending their late morning some more.

“What brought this on?” John wants to know after a long, comfortable while of wandering hands.

Sherlock’s hand in John’s hair stops its caressing for a moment and then just cradles the head close to his chest. “I know I’m not easy,” he finally says. “I am demanding and I don’t always know how to return your affections so that you would understand what I feel. And there are days where I am unable to return anything at all. Days where I disappoint you.”

John remains silent but runs calming fingers over Sherlock’s stomach. It’s not like this is news to him...

“I just want you to know that it will always be you.”

John sighs and props himself up on his elbow. “I know that, Sherlock. And I know you, and if you were anyone else, neither of us would be here. I told you there was no need for sacrifices.”

Sherlock’s grin is decidedly wolfish, and he chuckles darkly. “Sacrifice, was it? I’m afraid you desecrated my oblation by throwing it onto the floor in a wet rag. We might have to repeat the ceremony at your convenience.”

John hides his face behind his hand, giggles and peeks through the fingers at a widely grinning Sherlock. “You’re an idiot.”

“Perhaps.”

John leans in for a kiss. “But I love you.”

Sherlock smiles and pulls him into another kiss. “And I you.”

John’s lip twitches. “Could it be that visiting your mother has rendered you somewhat sentimental?”

Sherlock scoffs. “Hardly.”

John just snickers and kisses Sherlock’s forehead. “So,” he says, decisively, and sits. “Now that his highness has been thoroughly shagged as requested, may I get up?”

Sherlock stretches like a cat in the sun. “His highness might even require breakfast.”

“Huh,” John huffs and gets up. “I should shag you more often, then, if it gets you to eat properly.” He grins. “I’m going to hit the shower. Don’t think you’ll get out of eating, afterwards, though.”

Sherlock chuckles and watches the door for a moment longer after it closes.

Then he is alone with his mind, and he sighs, relaxing even more than orgasm can provide for him. Much as he loves John, his mind needs time on its own to rearrange and file information. He knows what happens to him when he doesn’t allow himself that time, and it’s not pretty. His mind breaking under the strain of wuthering and uncontrolled information is what used to drive him into drugs. 

At first, it was all kinds of information, simply because his mind isn’t designed for the untrained user. Later, it was information pertaining to emotional matters; when he could no longer process emotional input, he would flee into artificial relief.

Now, there is John. John channels his emotions. He lets Sherlock feel them without them losing their designated and logical spot in his mind or attempting to overtake others.

His rare emotions are now mostly crystal clear and orderly. And if there ever is one that makes his inner compass needle jump, John is beside him to unfailingly point north.

No, not necessarily an advantage...

John steps out of the bathroom and finds Sherlock no longer post-orgasmically relaxed, but calm and at peace. He smiles.

... But definitely not a disadvantage, either.

 

**END**

_120313_

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I’ll end this story here, for now. I might get back to this universe and add a little situation or whatever I can think of if something pops up (be that a particular case or a personal issue).  
> You can make requests for this ‘verse if you like, and they might prompt something, but I can’t promise you that they will... ;)
> 
> Thanks for the ride :) Please leave a note on your way out ♥


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